


All My Mistakes

by ClaraxBarton



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Action, Adventure, Angst, Clint still doing his solo assassin thing, Coffee, M/M, Movie References, Pre-Canon, Smut, Spanking, jumping off roofs, or well pre-Avengers, plumbing, shooting bad guys, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-05-14 18:30:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14774933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton
Summary: Next job I’m taking is going to be south of the equator, Clint promised himself as he finished zipping up his down coat. He wished he had another. He was already wearing a black balaclava and a black beanie, thermal underwear under his clothes and two pairs of pants, but it was freezing on the rooftop.The wind and the fine, misty rain that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be snow, ice or rain definitely didn’t help matters.Clint hated the cold.He didn’t understand why millionaire criminal masterminds couldn’t meet in exotic, warm locations to do their deals.If he was a millionaire criminal mastermind, he sure as hell wouldn’t do deals in London in February.-o-It's February, 1999, and Clint Barton is about to encounter the Winter Soldier





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kangofu_CB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/gifts).



**London** **February** **1999**

 

_ Next job I’m taking is going to be south of the equator _ , Clint promised himself as he finished zipping up his down coat. He wished he had another. He was already wearing a black balaclava  _ and  _ a black beanie, thermal underwear under his clothes and two pairs of pants, but it was fucking  _ freezing _ on the rooftop.

 

The wind and the fine, misty rain that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be snow, ice or rain definitely didn’t help matters.

 

Clint hated the cold. 

 

He didn’t understand why millionaire criminal masterminds couldn’t meet in exotic,  _ warm _ locations to do their deals. 

 

If  _ he _ was a millionaire criminal mastermind, he sure as hell wouldn’t do deals in  _ London _ in  _ February _ .

 

And definitely not in a penthouse apartment that was  _ all _ windows.

 

The damn place was practically  _ begging _ for a sniper to try his hand at it. Or her hand. Clint had met a fair few female snipers, and he wasn’t about to discriminate.

 

Not when the target lived in a damn shooting gallery.

 

Which Clint had spent the past three nights staking out, sitting on a rooftop two blocks away, freezing his balls off, waiting for his client to give him the go.

 

Apparently, there were multiple variables in play, and apparently, Clint’s client wanted to make a  _ statement _ \- and blah blah blah. Clint’s fee was going up for each additional night he froze his ass off so, in the end, it would be worth it.

 

But right  _ now _ , it was just really fucking cold.

 

Still, this was finally the night, according to the email Clint had received that afternoon. So it was his last night freezing his toes off. All he had to do was wait until the target was in the middle of his deal with, Clint had discovered on his own,  _ his _ client’s main competition in the weapons smuggling market in Saudi Arabia. Clint had been confused at first - it would, to him, make more sense to take out the competition. Instead, his client wanted the potential buyer taken out as a message to the competition to cease and desist. 

 

Whatever. A paycheck was a paycheck.

 

And a dead arms dealer, for whatever reason, was a good arms dealer in Clint’s book.

 

He was using a rifle for this job, as much as he preferred a bow. But the closest location with clean sight lines and a good escape route was far enough away that the shot would have been tricky to make. 

 

So a rifle it was.

 

Clint looked through the scope again, taking in the hideous decor of the penthouse apartment. All bright colors, reds and greens and yellows and blues - just a riot of it, everywhere.

 

And there was his guy, lounging on a huge, plush red couch, on the phone, watching a cricket game, and barking orders at an attractive female assistant who looked ready to murder the guy herself. 

 

Clint scanned the apartments below, but they were dark and far more tastefully decorated.

 

He didn’t have a glimpse of the road, but he could see the stairwell and elevator shafts, since whoever had designed the building had thought  _ hey _ ,  _ why not completely eliminate the concept of privacy altogether? _

 

The stairs wrapped around the elevator shaft and-

 

Huh. The elevator was moving up to the top floor.

 

Clint prayed it contained three to five large Chechen guys so he could call it a night and get somewhere warm.

 

_ Bingo _ .

 

The doors opened to reveal  _ six _ large Chechen guys. 

 

Not Clint’s concern, though. He only had to take out one guy - didn’t really matter how many Chechens were left to stare at the corpse afterwards.

 

All he had to do was-

 

_ What the fuck? _

 

There was movement on the roof of the apartment.

 

Clint quickly focused his scope upwards, just in time to see a figure clad in all black  _ rappel _ down the side of the building.

 

_ What in the fucking fuck? _

 

Six Chechens, a very lost spelunker and-

 

There was movement on the stairwell.

 

Clint jerked his scope away from the roof and to the stairwell.

 

Halfway up, moving in pairs, were Interpol agents.

 

_ Oh, for fuck’s sake _ .

 

If his guy got arrested, Clint wasn’t going to get paid, and would, probably, have a hit put out on himself for fucking up this badly.

 

_ Fuck, fuck, fuck _ .

 

He focused his rifle back on the penthouse apartment and forced himself to breathe slowly, evenly and deeply.

 

The rappel guy had stopped himself on the same floor as the penthouse, but he was several windows away from the living room, feet braced on the glass, looking for all the world like he was just… enjoying the miserable fucking weather.

 

Clint debated whether or not to take him out. He definitely wasn’t with the Interpol force storming up the stairs, and he seriously doubted the Chechens had thought to put a guy on the roof to  _ rappel _ down as a lookout. He also didn’t think his guy would have invested in such a safeguard.

 

Which meant the spelunker was probably there to kill someone himself.

 

_ Hm _ .

 

Nothing like a party at an assassination.

 

Clint smirked and focused back on his target.

 

Interpol was only four flights away now, and his target was ushering the Chechens into the living room. The assistant had disappeared into the kitchen.

 

Now was the perfect time.

 

Clint caressed the trigger with his finger and drew in a deep breath.

 

On the exhale, he squeezed.

 

All hell broke loose.

 

And it wasn’t even because of him.

 

At the same moment Clint’s target dropped to his knees, a sizeable chunk of his head missing, the glass windows of the living room exploded as the spelunker unloaded automatic fire into the room and  _ dove _ through the chaos of glass and bullets into the room.

 

Still firing.

 

The spelunker took out two of the Chechens straight away, their bodies falling to the floor alongside Clint’s target.

 

The other four found cover, and Clint- 

 

Clint should pack up his gear and get the hell away from here, but he really wanted to watch and see what happened next. 

 

The spelunker took cover himself, behind the red couch, as the Chechens opened fire.

 

Clint got a better look at him, then. His hair was loose, long enough to brush over his shoulders, and dark. He was wearing some kind of mask over the lower part of his face that reminded Clint of Darth Vader and-

 

And his left hand was  _ shiny _ . Shiny, as in metallic. 

 

_ What the fuck? _

 

The assistant came back into the room, holding a gun, and one of the Chechens immediately took her out.

 

And Interpol was now booking it the rest of the way up the stairs, just two more flights to go.

 

_ Fuck _ .

 

The Chechens could go to hell, for all Clint cared, but the spelunker had balls, and a metal fucking hand.

 

Clint reloaded his rifle and aimed for the Chechen advancing on the red couch.

 

He took him out and immediately started to reload.

 

The spelunker was up and moving, diving forward and rolling, coming up with guns blazing because now he had  _ two _ , one for each hand, and took out two more of the Chechens. 

 

Which still left one, who-

 

Clint dropped him just as the Chechen aimed for the spelunker.

 

The man turned, and he looked  _ right _ at where Clint was positioned.

 

He wasn’t even breathing hard and-

 

Interpol kicked open the door.

 

The spelunker jerked his gaze away from Clint’s location just in time to duck the first rounds that were shot his way.

 

Clint reloaded again and took aim.

 

The apartment door, already in bad shape from getting forced open, splintered further as the bullet impacted.

 

The Interpol agents immediately crouched down low, which wasn’t going to do them a whole lot of good if Clint wanted to take them out.

 

But he didn’t.

 

It was one of the few rules Clint played by.

 

_ Don’t kill the good guys _ .

 

Thankfully, the spelunker used that moment of confusion to his advantage and  _ jumped _ out of the building.

 

He was nowhere near his rope, which in any case wasn’t long enough to do him any good and-

 

He dug his metal hand into the side of the building, slowing and controlling his descent.

 

It was the most amazing, sexiest thing Clint had ever seen.

 

But then he found himself under fire as the Interpol agents in the penthouse opened up.

 

_ Fucking fuck _ .

 

Clint grabbed his rifle, his kit, and ran for the opposite side of the building and jumped.

 

His escape wasn’t nearly as hardcoare as the spelunker’s. The next building was lower, and the alley separating them tight enough that Clint could make the jump - he had practiced the previous nights - and he rolled as he landed to absorb the impact.

 

He heard the helicopter seconds before he saw the shafts of searchlights.

 

_ Why me _ ?

 

He slipped on a puddle of ice/water/sludge and went down hard.

 

Pulling himself back up, he tried to find cover before the spotlight found him again.

 

He failed, and as the light washed over him, Clint promised himself that if he made it out of this alive, he was  _ definitely _ only taking jobs in tropical locations in the future. 

 

_ Cuba _ , he thought as gunfire started to pepper the rooftop and he started to run again.  _ Cuba is gorgeous. And so many bad guys to kill _ .

 

A burning, stabbing pain erupted in his left side, and Clint swore and almost stumbled as he neared the edge of the roof.

 

He jumped again and  _ fell _ .

 

Clint let go of both his kit and the rifle, and even so, just barely managed to grab the railing of the fire escape on the opposite building.

 

He panted and swore at the pain in his arm, but managed to pull himself up onto the fire escape. 

 

He swung his elbow at the glass in front of him and, just as the helicopter spot-light crept over the edge of the roof he had jumped from, Clint climbed through the window.

 

And found himself staring at a middle-aged, dark-skinned man and woman. They were sitting on a couch, watching the cricket game on television.

 

“Hi,” Clint said, and climbed to his feet. “I’m sorry about the window. I, uh-”

 

The man started to scream, and a moment later, the woman joined in. And then a baby started to cry.

 

Clint held his hands up.

 

“Okay, okay! I’m going, I’m going! Just-”

 

The woman threw a book at him.

 

Clint dodged it, but then she picked up a lamp.

 

“I said I was going!”

 

He ran for the front door, and the lamp impacted with his left shoulder just as he reached it.

 

“You’ve got a great arm,” he grumbled as he unlocked the door.

 

He ran down the hall, their shouting echoing after him, and started to peel off his beanie and the balaclava.

 

He was down the stairs and out of the building in seconds, wrapping his gear up in the black down coat and shoving it into a dumpster before shouldering his way through a few pedestrians and then jogging across the street.

 

Clint set a brisk pace, changing the side of the street and his direction every other block. He kept his head down, especially when police sirens started flashing, heading in the opposite direction.

 

There hadn’t been anything identifying in his kit, thankfully, and the rifle was something he had picked up in Germany, and non-descript enough that it would take Interpol forever to track it. Still. 

 

Clint debated doubling back and trying to grab his gear, but by now he was sure the police and/or Interpol had it.

 

Sloppy.

 

He had gotten distracted by a metal hand, and now he was, well, not screwed, but not great.

 

Not-

 

Clint was suddenly dragged off of the street and into an alley, a vice-like grip on his right shoulder and a hand immediately shoved over his mouth.

 

He fought against the grip, grabbing the hand on his mouth with both of his own even as he lashed out with his feet.

 

Immediately, Clint was shoved against the rough,  _ cold _ brick wall of the alley.

 

And found himself looking directly at the spelunker.

 

_ What the fuck? _

 

“Quiet,” the man said. His voice was low and rough.

 

Clint nodded his understanding, and the spelunker slowly removed his hand.

 

They stared at each other, Clint breathing hard, the other guy just glaring at him with storm-grey eyes.

 

“Who are you?” the man demanded.

 

“Who are  _ you _ ?” Clint whisper-shouted back at him.

 

The grip on Clint’s shoulder tightened, and Clint looked down to see the metal fingers curled in his jacket.

 

“Are you looking for John Connor?” Clint asked.

 

The man’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

 

“Terminator?” Clint asked.

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The man’s English had barely any accent to it, just the hint of something that Clint couldn’t quite place. He didn’t sound like any kind of American or Brit that Clint had ever heard. Maybe he was Canadian? No, his  _ about _ hadn’t sounded Canadian at all and-

 

“Who are you?” the man repeated his question.

 

“Just a guy. I was just- doing my job.”

 

“Your job was to help me?”

 

“No, no, I don’t even know who you are, remember?”

 

“Then why did you help me?” The man shoved Clint back against the wall again.

 

“ _ Ow _ ,” Clint whined as his head impacted with the brick. 

 

“Why?”

 

“I don’t know!” Clint bit out. “I just-”

 

The flashing lights of more police cars momentarily illuminated the alley, and they both turned to look.

 

“Any chance we can continue this conversation somewhere  _ not _ here?” Clint suggested.

 

The man relaxed his grip on Clint.

 

“Where?”

 

“I have a safehouse - few blocks away.”

 

The man looked uneasy at the suggestion.

 

“Or we can go wherever you want,” Clint said. “You got a place? We could-”

 

“ _ No _ ,” the man cut him off. “You would be killed. Take me to your safehouse. And don’t try to run. I will find you again.”

 

Clint didn’t doubt that.

 

He still didn’t know how the hell the guy had tracked him down in the  _ first _ place.

 

They started walking, and Clint glimpsed a familiar black bag on the man’s back.

 

“Is that my kit?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“My rifle?”

 

“Disassembled and packed in here.”

 

“Wow.  _ Wow _ .”

 

Clint wasn’t easily impressed. But this guy…

 

-o-

 

It took thirty minutes to get back to the safehouse, both of them twitchy enough and paranoid enough that they back-tracked several times to make sure their trail was clear before finally approaching the rather sad-looking row house where Clint had decided to base his operations.

 

“You own this?” the man asked as Clint let them in and then secured all five locks he had installed two weeks ago behind them.

 

“Yep. Er-” He immediately realized he shouldn’t be giving out that kind of information.

 

_ What the hell was wrong with him? _ He knew that - had known that since he was ten and running cons with the circus.

 

The man dropped Clint’s gear onto the floor and started to roam.

 

Clint awkwardly followed him from room to room, watching the man as he catalogued the bare walls, the nearly empty rooms, the folding table and folding chairs set up in what Clint considered the dining room. And then they were headed upstairs, the man looking into the bedroom, glancing at the mattress on the floor and the pile of blankets with a raised eyebrow before investigating the bathroom and the empty guest rooms.

 

“There’s a wine cellar too, if you want the full tour,” Clint said.

 

The man gave him a look, and Clint sighed and led the way down the stairs and then to the basement.

 

“There’s no wine,” the man pointed out as they stood in the dark, empty space.

 

“Yeah. I was- It was a joke.”

 

“You should work on your delivery.”

 

Clint rolled his eyes.

 

“Yeah, I’ll get right to work on that. Look, are you- What-”

 

But he was speaking to nothing. The man was already heading back up to the main floor.

 

Clint followed him, and then continued to follow him as the man went back up to the second level and into the bathroom.

 

He grabbed the first aid kit Clint had stored on a shelf above the toilet and turned to Clint.

 

“Take off your clothes.”

 

“ _ What _ ?”

 

“You’re bleeding,” the man said.

 

Clint frowned, and then remembered.

 

_ Oh, right. I was  _ shot _ while running for my life after helping Terminator escape _ .

 

With a sigh, and then a groan of pain, Clint pulled off his jacket, his sweater, his thermal undershirt, and then his regular undershirt.

 

The man had an eyebrow arched, and even though Clint could only see half his face, he could see the judgement.

 

“It’s fucking  _ cold _ on rooftops,” Clint defended himself.

 

“It didn’t feel that cold to me,” the man retorted, and opened up the kit.

 

“Yeah, well, you’re more machine than man so…”

 

There was no reaction to the Star Wars quote, and Clint sighed in frustration.

 

“Look, if you’re going to keep interrogating me, why bother patching me up?”

 

“I wasn’t interrogating you. Do you want me to interrogate you?”

 

Even though he was just holding a bottle of hydrogen peroxide in his metal hand and a washcloth in his other, the man was still ridiculously intimidating.

 

And sexy.

 

Clint swallowed hard, and forced himself  _ not _ to think too much about either of those.

 

“No,” he said with as much nonchalance as he could muster. Which was actually a lot. Clint had been bluffing his way through life for as long as he could remember.

 

“Lift your arm.”

 

Clint did as instructed, and held himself very still as the man knelt down in front of him.

 

_ Right _ .

 

That definitely wasn’t helping Clint  _ not _ think the sexy thoughts.

 

“Not even a million-dollar wound,” the man said.

 

“Huh?”

 

“It’s just a scratch. You’ll live.”

 

The man cleaned up Clint’s blood, his touch surprisingly gentle. He carefully taped a piece of gauze over it, and then dumped the bloody rag in the sink and washed his hands before turning back to Clint and crossing his arms over his chest.

 

“Um, thanks?” Clint felt like he should say something, and even though he could have done exactly what the man had just done himself, there was no need to be rude. Especially since he was fairly certain the man could kill him with that metal hand of his.

 

“You got any joe? I haven’t had any in-” the man cut himself off, brows furrowed again.

 

“Since when?” Clint prompted.

 

The man seemed to shake himself out of whatever mental place he had momentarily wandered to.

 

“Do you have any?” he repeated the question.

 

“Coffee? Sure. Uh, downstairs.”

 

The man didn’t move, clearly waiting for Clint to go first.

 

Clint rolled his eyes and pulled on a clean, bullet and blood-free sweater before leading the way back down to the kitchen.

 

As he brewed the coffee, the man sat down at the folding table, hands on the surface, pose suspiciously casual.

 

“You gonna drink with that mask on?” Clint asked.

 

The man huffed and then unfastened it, setting it down on the table beside him.

 

And Clint really wished he hadn’t said anything.

 

_ Fuck _ .

 

The man was gorgeous, his lips full, his jawline and cheeks well defined, even with the short, dark stubble on them that Clint knew would feel amazing under his own lips and-

 

Clint cleared his throat.

 

“So, uh, you got a name?”

 

The man frowned again, but now that his mouth was visible, it- it was really distracting. 

 

“John Connor,” the man said at last.

 

Clint was startled into a laugh, and he saw a corner of the man’s mouth hitch up minutely.

 

“Great. Nice to meet you, John. I’m Frank.”

 

“No, you’re not.”

 

“No, I’m not. But you’re not John Connor, so let’s leave it there, huh?”

 

John held Clint’s gaze for a long moment, and then nodded.

 

“So, John, what do you have against Chechens?”

 

“I don’t feel one way or another about them.”

 

“I meant those six - not like, the entire ethnicity.”

 

Clint dug out two coffee mugs and put them on the table. He poured coffee into both, and then put sugar on the table.

 

“You take it with milk?” he asked.

 

“You have milk?” There was naked hunger in the man’s gaze as it met Clint’s, and Clint did  _ not _ deserve this kind of torture.

 

“Yeah, I’ve got milk.”

 

He put that on the table too, and watched John dump enough sugar and milk into his cup to pretty much drown out the taste of the coffee completely. Hell, it was almost as  _ pale _ as the milk by the time he was done with it.

 

Clint arched an eyebrow with some judgement of his own before adding far less sugar to his own cup. He put the milk back in the fridge and sat down in the chair opposite John.

 

“This coffee is awful,” John said after taking a large sip.

 

Clint snorted.

 

“Dunno how you can still call it  _ coffee _ after what you did to it, but yeah, it’s not the best. No Chock Full O’Nuts, that’s for sure.”

 

John’s eyes sharpened, and then he frowned, seemingly confused.

 

“You got something against New York’s finest?” Clint asked him.

 

“No. I…” John looked lost, his gaze unfocused.

 

Clint didn’t know if  - or even  _ what _ \- he should say or do, so he let John have his moment.

 

“Why did you help me?” John repeated the question that had brought them here in the first place.

 

Clint shrugged one shoulder.

 

“Dunno, really. I… I just kind of wondered what you would do. I’d already taken out my guy, so it wasn’t like you were going to mess things up for me.”

 

“You didn’t shoot the Interpol agents.”

 

“No. I don’t shoot good guys.”

 

John’s eyebrows lifted at that, but he didn’t offer a comment.

 

“Did I fuck up your job?” Clint asked.

 

“How so?”

 

“Were you supposed to kill the arms dealer, or just the Chechens?”

 

“I was supposed to kill everyone.”

 

“Except Interpol.”

 

Now it was John’s turn to shrug.

 

“They weren’t the targets, but casualties were acceptable.”

 

John’s voice was cold, the words precise, and Clint got the impression that the other man was reciting orders.

 

“Are you CIA?”

 

“No.”

 

“KGB? Or whatever the fuck they are now? Mossad? M-”

 

“If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.”

 

Clint grinned, but the look on John’s face immediately made the expression wilt.

 

“You’re serious.”

 

John nodded.

 

“Oh. I thought you were- Do you know  _ any _ movies?”

 

John was back in that faraway place again.

 

“Robin Hood.”

 

“With Kevin Costner?” Clint shrugged. “It’s not bad - he should have practiced archery more before he made the movie but, not bad.”

 

“I don’t know who that is.” John looked like he was in deep concentration. “Errol Flynn? Was he-”

 

“ _ Oh _ ! You mean the  _ good _ Robin Hood. Nice. Yeah, excellent. Awesome movie.”

 

John nodded absently, and then continued to sip his coffee.

 

“I don’t understand,” he finally said.

 

“Don’t understand what?” Clint asked cautiously.

 

“Why you helped me. It doesn’t make any sense.”

 

Clint shrugged and gave an uneasy laugh.

 

“I’ve never been accused of being logical. Or smart. I just… I dunno. I just did it.”

 

“I didn’t need your help.”

 

“Probably not,” Clint shrugged, “but maybe.”

 

“Maybe,” John agreed, rolling the word around on his tongue as if testing it out.

 

“Look, it’s not a big deal. Okay? I helped you, you grabbed my gear - let’s call it even.”

 

John frowned and shook his head.

 

“No. I owe you.”

 

Clint shook his head in disagreement.

 

“No, it’s-”

 

“I owe you.” John rubbed a hand over his forehead, and then looked at the clock on the wall behind him. “I have to report in at 0200. Do you need someone killed in the next four hours?”

 

Clint was in the middle of swallowing, and immediately spewed the coffee out. Thankfully, it didn’t land on John. But he did, rightfully, look disgusted.

 

“I- No. No. I’m good. Plus, I can handle my own murders. But, uh, thanks for the offer. That’s- that’s kind of you. Or, well, not kind. Generous. Real generous.”

 

“I owe you,” John stubbornly repeated. 

 

“I-” Clint sighed. “What do you know about plumbing?”

 

-o-

 

Thirty minutes later, John was in the shower, muttering something dark and definitely Russian at the shower head as he screwed it back on for the fifth time.

 

Clint, drinking his second cup of coffee and leaning against the door jamb to watch, forced himself not to laugh.

 

The guy had asked if he could murder someone for Clint without batting an eyelash, but the shower head… It seemed like he had met his mortal enemy  _ despite _ assuring Clint that he could take care of whatever problem he had.

 

The first four times that John had completely disassembled the shower head and all of the… whatever the rest of the components were that he could reach had resulted in not much more than some really decorative Russian cursing that Clint committed to memory. 

 

This time, though, this time, John looked ready to rip the entire plumbing out of the wall if it didn’t work.

 

He gave one last, brutal jerk of his hand to secure the shower head, and Clint winced in sympathy for the metal that was now no longer entirely round.

 

Then John bent down and, still obviously furious, yanked on the water spigot.

 

Whatever he had done that time had clearly fixed the problem. 

 

Water immediately shot out of the shower head, the pressure actually quite impressive. John stumbled back a step, shouting something unintelligible, before he tripped and crashed down to the floor of the bathtub. 

 

Clint winced in sympathy and moved to turn off the water, but not before the icy cold spray glanced over his own head and neck.

 

“Fuck, that’s cold!”

 

“I hadn’t noticed,” John growled.

 

Clint snorted and looked at him.

 

Crouched in the back of the tub, legs spread in an attempt to minimize the surface area that the water could hit, John looked furious and soaking wet, his hair plastered to his skull, and for all the murder Clint could still see in his eyes, he was strangely… adorable.

 

Clint laughed.

 

John’s gaze narrowed.

 

“What are you laughing at?”

 

“You,” Clint admitted. “You’re all- ready to rappel off a building and take on all of Interpol, but a little  _ cold water _ and you’re-”

 

“Listen, you punk, you’re the one who goes around in seventeen layers of clothes. You don’t really have a leg to stand on when it comes to the cold.”

 

“Maybe if  _ you _ were wearing seventeen layers - and it was four, okay - then you wouldn’t be so cold right now.”

 

They remained there, John glaring and Clint grinning, for a solid minute before John muttered something about blond idiots all being the same under his breath and got to his feet.

 

Still standing in the shower, John peeled off his shirt and dropped it to the floor of the tub.

 

Clint stared.

 

John’s shoulders were broad, his arms muscled, his abs lickable, but his left shoulder - it was a mass of ugly, angry scarring that met metal. His entire left arm was metal.

 

John caught him staring.

 

“What the fuck happened to you?” Clint asked, and because he had no sense of self-preservation, he reached out to touch the metal.

 

John, remarkably, allowed it.

 

“I don’t remember,” he said, voice low and empty. 

 

It brought Clint back to his senses. He swallowed and stepped back.

 

Which apparently was John’s cue to drop his pants.

 

“Uh-”

 

“We’re almost the same size. Can I…” John’s face scrunched up, “can I borrow some of your clothes?”

 

“Sure, but you’re gonna have to fix my fireplace.”

 

John gave him a look.

 

“I was kidding. Seriously. It’s fine. Just- let me get you a towel.”

 

Clint rummaged in the linen cupboard, and then tossed the largest towel he could find at John before leaving him alone in the bathroom and walking back into the bedroom to find him something to wear.

 

He set down his coffee mug on the floor and rifled through the duffel bag that he had started to think of as his  _ dresser _ . 

 

Clint tended to buy cheap clothes when he was on an op - nothing that he would be sad to burn because of blood stains - and he tended to buy dark colors because they hid said blood best.

 

He pulled out black boxers, a dark brown sweater, and black sweatpants that would have to do.

 

Getting back to his feet, Clint turned around and immediately dropped everything back into the duffel bag.

 

“Christ, you’re hot.”

 

The words were out of Clint’s mouth before he could stop them.

 

John was standing in front of him, rubbing the towel through his hair, completely naked. 

 

He frowned at Clint.

 

“I’m not hot. It’s cold in here.”

 

“No, not- I just- You’re sexy as hell. You know that, right?”

 

“Sexy.” John said it like he didn’t know what the word meant.

 

Clint rolled his eyes.

 

“Come on, you’ve got to have men and women falling all over themselves begging you to fuck them all of the time.”

 

“Never.”

 

Clint didn’t know if that was an opening or not.

 

It sure as hell  _ sounded _ like an opening and- 

 

_ Fuck it _ .  _ What’s the worst that could happen?  _

 

Murder. Murder was the worst that could happen.

 

Still…

 

Clint raked his eyes over all of that hard muscle, smooth skin juxtaposed with scars, the dark thatch of hair between John’s gorgeous thighs and his-

 

“Well, I wouldn’t mind being the first,” he said.

 

John frowned again.

 

“The first… to fall over yourself begging me to fuck you?”

 

Clint nodded.

 

“Yeah, I mean, we could totally skip the me falling all over myself. Well, I think I’m kind of already doing that part. But let’s just skip to me begging to fuck you instead, huh?”

 

John looked over Clint, and for a moment, Clint thought John was trying to decide if Clint was worth it, but then he caught that faraway look in John’s eyes again. 

 

It hit Clint, all of a sudden, that he knew that look. Had seen it, before. On a few guys in the circus, men who had fought in Vietnam, men who had depended on drugs to get out of bed, men who had sat up all night staring at the wall, men who-

 

“It’s been...a long time,” John finally said.

 

“That’s fine. It’s like riding a bike. Kind of. Not at all, actually.”

 

“I don’t- Is that what you want? Me?”

 

The phrasing, and the way John looked, for the first time, unsure of himself, had Clint immediately tensing up.

 

“No,” he said immediately, voice harsh. “I’m not- I don’t want you to trade sex for the clothes or the helping you or any of that shit. I’m not asking for that. That’s- that’s  _ not _ what I want. It’s not sex if you don’t want it too, it’s rape. And that’s not- No, okay? Just, forget I said anything. I’m sorry. I need to learn how to keep my fucking mouth closed. Here.”

 

Clint picked up the clothes and tossed them to John.

 

He caught them easily, but continued to look at Clint.

 

“ _ What _ ?” Clint hissed. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry.”

 

“I think I want it.” The words were tenuous, completely at odds with the powerful body and the previous actions of the man standing before Clint.

 

“You can’t  _ think _ you want it. You either want it, or you don’t.”

 

John seemed to give it serious consideration for a moment, and then he dropped the clothes and his towel.

 

“I want it,” he said, the words a bit superfluous considering the fact that he was looking at Clint with the same expression he had eyed his mockery of a cup of coffee earlier. “I want you.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Clint was pretty sure his heart skipped a beat, in the face of John’s sudden intensity. 

 

“I, um-”

 

John arched one eyebrow.

 

“You said begging would be involved. Tell me  _ that _ isn’t how you beg.”

 

Clint was startled into a laugh.

 

“You’re such a jerk,” he said, and John’s lips spread into a wide, dazzling smile. 

 

“And you’re a punk,” John rejoined.

 

Clint snorted a laugh.

 

“Well, I  _ am _ feeling lucky,” he said.

 

Once again, the reference completely went over John’s head, and Clint decided to give up. 

 

On the movie references.

 

Not on John.

 

Smirking, Clint pulled off his sweater and then his pants. And then his other pants. And then his thermal long johns, and finally his boxers and then his socks.

 

John looked like he wanted to laugh, but was clearly smart enough to know that that wouldn’t result in anything good.

 

Clint walked closer to him, close enough that all he needed to do was rock forward to press their lips together.

 

And then he sank to his knees.

 

Looking up at John, Clint watched his throat work, watched his pale cheeks flush and his pupils flare.

 

“Fuck me.”

 

He barely had the words out of his mouth before John was kneeling with him, their bodies pressed together from knee to shoulder and John’s arms wrapped around his back, and his lips found Clint’s.

 

John kissed like he was drowning, breathing harsh, mouth open, movements frantic and wild.

 

Clint put his hands in John’s hair, grazing his nails over the other man’s scalp, distracting him momentarily, and used the distraction to take control of the kiss.

 

He parted his own lips, found John’s, and caressed the plump, chapped flesh. He wasn’t gentle, but neither was he frenetic. He kept his touch firm, and John responded with a sound that was close to a gasp before he followed Clint’s lead. 

 

And damn, but he learned fast. 

 

Clint nipped John’s lower lip between his teeth, and then sucked on it until John groaned and dug his metal fingers into Clint’s hip. And then he did the same to Clint, and  _ fuck _ .

 

He ran his hands over John’s shoulders, one rough with scar tissue, the other smooth, both incredibly solid and strong. The feel of hot, hard muscle under one hand and cold, implacable steel under the other was unbelievably arousing. 

 

As were the sounds John was making. He’d struck Clint as the silent type, but damn, the man made the most delicious sounds.

 

Clint broke away from the kiss to look at him. 

 

John’s grey eyes were almost entirely black, and his lips were dark and swollen. He looked, impossibly, even more gorgeous than he had before.

 

Clint smirked and ducked his head to lick a trail down John’s neck, following the jumping pulse down to John’s collar and then sucking on the spot.

 

John’s hands moved down to cup Clint’s ass and haul him closer, John sitting on his knees and pulling Clint into his lap and holding him there while Clint marked him.

 

“Can I?” John asked, breathless when Clint finally released him.

 

“Can you what?” Clint asked with a smirk.

 

John pressed his metal thumb to the juncture between Clint’s neck and shoulder.

 

“Please,” John added.

 

“Fuck, yes. Christ, you say please like that, and you can do any damn thing you want to me.”

 

Something that might have been a laugh or a growl rumbled low in John’s throat, but then he was pressing his lips to the spot he had picked, and Clint sucked in a breath at the throbbing pain and pleasure.

 

“Mm, yeah,” he moaned into John’s hair, tangling his fingers in the damp strands. “Bite me.”

 

John did as ordered, letting his teeth rake over the spot.

 

“Harder,” Clint said, and then hissed in pain when John complied.

 

“Fuck, yes.”

 

“Someone needs to wash your mouth out with soap,” John suggested before kissing Clint again, swallowing his laugh.

 

Their tongues tangled together, teasing, thrusting in a parody of what Clint really wanted, and he experimentally rolled his hips over John’s lap.

 

John’s grip on his ass tightened, and Clint could feel his cock, half-hard and already not small.

 

He reached down, but John was quicker, his flesh hand wrapping around Clint’s already hard cock, his fingers fisting around the hard shaft in a firm grip that had Clint groaning into John’s mouth.

 

“Please,” he gasped.

 

“There’s the begging,” John chuckled, the sound pure sex.

 

Clint kissed him again, and then moaned as John’s cool, metal fingers teased along the seam between his ass, glancing over his perineum and applying just enough pressure to make Clint forget his own name.

 

“Fuck.”

 

“ _ Language _ ,” John growled, and Clint laughed.

 

“What, are you going to spank me for saying  _ fuck _ ?”

 

John did exactly that, shocking a yelp out of Clint. He ground down against John’s cock, finding him fully hard and fully huge. John’s hand tightened around Clint’s cock, stroking up and down, rubbing precum from the head along the shaft. Clint bit his bottom lip and tried not to just start fucking the hand around his cock. John smirked and spanked him again.

 

Clint sucked in a breath. It hurt, but it was skirting that edge of pain and pleasure that he loved so perfectly.

 

And John seemed to know, his dark eyes studying Clint’s reactions.

 

Another slap to his ass, and then Clint gave up on any pretense of not being absolutely fucking desperate. He rocked against John’s cock, trapped under his ass, and rubbing deliciously against Clint’s balls and perineum as he moved.

 

John’s metal hand dug into Clint’s ass at the movement.

 

“Please,” Clint begged.

 

“Please, what?” John sounded wrecked, and Clint kissed him again, desperate to taste the desire, the  _ need _ he heard in John’s rough voice.

 

Clint wasn’t entirely sure how it happened. One minute, he was in John’s lap, and the next, they were both on the floor, side by side, hands scrambling for dicks, and then they were rolling, John on top, their lips still fused together, and then Clint rolled them again until he was straddling John, and he broke the kiss with a gasp.

 

John looked up at him and licked his lips.

 

“Christ, you’re beautiful,” Clint groaned.

 

He licked his palm and reached down to stroke his own cock.

 

John’s eyes followed the movement even as his own hands went to Clint’s hips, urging him to continue grinding against his cock.

 

Clint stroked himself while he watched John watch him, and it was hot, so very, very hot to have this absolutely sexy, dangerous man between his thighs watching Clint jack himself off like it was the most divine thing he had ever witnessed.

 

“Please,” John croaked.

 

“Please, what?” Clint gasped.

 

“I want to taste you.”

 

And Clint’s orgasm hit him like a truck running a red light, completely out of nowhere and so hard it  _ hurt, _ and  _ fuck, _ he hadn’t come this much in forever and-

 

John’s hand joined Clint’s, fingers tangling with his, uncaring that there was come all over John’s belly or their hands, and he continued to stroke Clint through it, forcing Clint’s own hand to slow and relax as Clint shuddered and gasped, and  _ fuck _ .

 

Clint had to prop himself up on one hand to keep from just collapsing onto John’s chest and the mess he had made.

 

And John was still looking at him like  _ that _ .

 

No one had ever looked at Clint like that before.

 

John’s metal fingers brushed over Clint’s cheek and his jaw before pressing against his lips and tracing the shape.

 

Clint managed to pull himself together and sat up straight again, still breathing heavily.

 

John dragged the index finger of his flesh hand through the mess on his belly, and then licked it clean.

 

Clint groaned.

 

“That’s not fucking fair. God, how are you this sexy?”

 

He leaned down and pressed a bruising, fierce kiss to John’s lips. He could taste himself, could feel John’s lips smile under his own, and he smiled back before pulling away.

 

“Mind if I get a taste of you?” he asked.

 

John swallowed hard.

 

“No, I don’t mind.”

 

Clint smirked and crawled down John’s body until he felt the other man’s cock against his throat.

 

John’s eyes were fixed on him as Clint angled his head down and parted his lips.

 

He licked the crown of John’s cock, tasting precum and feeling the velvety, firm flesh jump under him.

 

John looked like he had forgotten how to breathe.

 

Clint licked down the length of the shaft, pressing his tongue against the underside and making John’s thighs tremble as he clearly tried to hold himself still.

 

Teasing lower, Clint licked John’s balls, ghosted his tongue over the other man’s perineum, and then traveled back up the length of his cock.

 

“Delicious,” Clint said with a smirk, and John laughed, the sound rich and dark and so fucking perfect.

 

“I think I’d like some more,” Clint winked, parted his lips, and slowly started to take John into his mouth.

 

“Holy-” John’s hands fisted at his sides, and his eyes squeezed closed as Clint continued his descent.

 

He didn’t try to deepthroat John - he was big, and Clint wasn’t confident he was up to the task. So he took in as much of the other man as he could, and then wrapped his right hand around the base of John’s cock.

 

John made a sound that could have been pain or pleasure, and Clint pulled his mouth away.

 

“You okay?” he asked.

 

“Never better,” John panted. 

 

“Tell me if that changes,” Clint said.

 

“Wilco,” John assured him.

 

Which had Clint smirking all over again. He crawled up John’s body to kiss him again. John’s hands cradled his head, and for a moment, the kiss seemed to become something else entirely. But then Clint pulled away and returned to his previous task.

 

John’s hands stayed in his hair, and Clint hummed happily when he felt the cool metal of John’s left hand rub over his scalp.

 

John hissed, and his hips bucked up unexpectedly.

 

“Sorry,” John muttered. “Sorry.”

 

Clint made the  _ ok _ symbol against John’s hip and then returned his focus to John’s cock, sucking and humming along the shaft while his hand worked up and down the base.

 

John’s fingers and the movements of his hips and thighs told Clint what he needed to know, what John liked.

 

Not too hard, not too much pressure, definitely the humming, the scrape of teeth against the underside but not the top, a slow pace while Clint savored the taste and smell of him. But as John got closer to climax, his hips rising and falling in aborted movements, Clint picked up the pace and John was definitely on board, hands holding on tight to Clint without holding him in place, and it was an entirely unique position for Clint to be in, to have this much control over things, and it was a little daunting.

 

“Frank, Frank, Jesus, I’m- I’m gonna come, Frank. I-” John’s frantic words devolved into a breathless moan just as Clint felt the bitter, salty spurts of John’s come across his tongue. He worked hard to swallow it, wave after wave, until John was pushing him away.

 

Clint sat back on his knees and wiped at his mouth, licking the come and saliva at the corner of his lips, and then licked the back of his hand.

 

John watched him with dark, heavy-lidded eyes.

 

“How are you real?” John asked.

 

Clint snorted and stretched out on the floor beside John.

 

“I’m not the one who rappelled off of a roof and shot up a room full of guys before jumping off the side of a building.”

 

“You did jump off the side of a building. Two buildings.”

 

“Yeah, but you- did the thing with your hand…” Clint gestured at it.

 

John stared at his metal arm with a slight frown.

 

Clint kissed the corner of his mouth and felt John’s lips curve.

 

He laid back down and stared at the ceiling.

 

“What time is it? How many more times can we do that before you have to leave?”

 

It was clearly the wrong thing to say.

 

Beside Clint, John went still.

 

Clint turned his head to look at him, but John was staring at the ceiling.

 

“Frank, if you- if we meet again-”

 

“Are you asking me on a date? Please tell me that’s not how you ask people out.” Clint smirked and propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at John.

 

John finally looked at him, and the expression in his eyes made Clint swallow hard.

 

“Frank, if you  _ ever _ see me again, you need to walk away.”

 

“I-  _ What _ ?” Clint felt a surge of anger. It was one thing to have no strings sex, another entirely to come out and practically  _ threaten _ Clint.

 

John sat up and reached for Clint’s shoulders.

 

“I’m serious, Frank. Walk away. Don’t run- you’ll look like a target. But you have to  _ walk away _ . Do you understand me?”

 

It no longer felt like a brush-off. There was real desperation in John’s voice, and it gave Clint pause.

 

“Why? John, what-”

 

“I can’t tell you. Just- promise me. Promise that if you ever see me again, you’ll walk away.”

 

John’s fingers were digging into Clint’s shoulders painfully, and he was confident he was going to have bruises after this.

 

“Okay, okay. I’ll walk away. I will,” he added when John still didn’t look convinced. 

 

“Promise.”

 

“I promise.”

 

John pressed his lips to Clint’s again, so soft Clint wondered if he had imagined they touched at all.

 

-o-


	2. More Mistakes to Make

**Iowa** **May** **2014**

 

Someone was knocking on the front door.

 

_ Pounding _ on the front door.

 

That was never good.

 

_ Who _ , Clint asked himself as he rolled out of bed and reached for his jeans,  _ was pounding on his door this early in the _ , he looked at his phone on the nightstand and grimaced, _ afternoon? _

 

More pounding, and it was starting to match the throbbing in his skull.

 

Which Clint deserved, seeing as how he had done his best to get very,  _ very _ drunk the night before. 

 

After all, there wasn’t anything else for him to do. 

 

Except drink, and hide from HYDRA. And hide from the US Intelligence apparatus. And hide from everyone fucking else. And… farm. Or something like that.

 

In the month since the HYDRA Uprising, the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D, and Natasha deciding to expose every single secret she could, Clint had found himself wavering between depression, rage and despair. 

 

_ Goodbye, Hawkeye _ , he thought bitterly as he trudged down the stairs.  _ Hello, Farmer Barton, ready to chat with angry neighbors _ .

 

Considering that his nearest neighbor was a good eighteen miles away, Clint was really curious about what had inspired someone to drive all the way to his place and put this much effort into getting his attention.

 

As he approached the door, Clint picked up the Beretta 92 he kept in the drawer of the console table in the hallway.

 

He looked through the peephole, but all he could make out was the brim of a  _ St. Louis Cardinals _ hat.

 

Clint sighed. He couldn’t justify shooting someone just for liking that team.

 

He tucked the Beretta into the back waistband of his jeans and unlocked the door.

 

“Can I help you with-”

 

The words died in Clint’s throat as he caught sight of the face under the  _ Cardinals _ hat.

 

He reached for his gun, but even as his fingers found the grip, a metal hand latched onto his wrist and wrenched it to the side.

 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Clint hissed in pain and curled his free, left hand into a fist and threw a punch at his assailant’s throat.

 

The man choked, and his grip on Clint’s hand momentarily relaxed. 

 

Clint tried to twist free, but then the entire weight of the other man was barrelling into him, pushing them both down to the ground.

 

They rolled, each grappling for control, but then Clint found himself pinned to the ground, hands stretched above his head and held in place by a metal grip and the man’s weight on his thighs.

 

It was, so very ironically, a position Clint had imagined them in countless times over the last fifteen years. 

 

He glared up into gray eyes he had thought never to see again.

 

“Frank,” the man said.

 

“That’s not my name, you psychotic, murderous HYDRA flunkie! You tried to kill my best friends, and you can go to hell before I  _ ever _ give you any-”

 

The man sitting on him sighed, reached into a pocket, and pulled out a syringe.

 

Clint tried to buck him off, tried to squirm his way free, tried-

 

The needle plunged into Clint’s thigh, sharp and deep, and  _ fuck _ .

 

For a moment, Clint felt nothing at all, and he smirked at his attacker.

 

“Fuck you. You fucking-”

 

It felt like there was lead in his veins, felt like the entire world was pressing down on Clint’s ribs, and he- he-

 

-o-

 

He woke up tied to a chair.

 

The throbbing in his head was way worse.

 

He was, at least, still in his house.

 

The chair - Clint rocked on it, feeling the slight give in the back left leg. Kitchen chair, then. The one that had wobbled for as long as Clint could remember. And, unfortunately, he could remember all the way back to his toddler years, crawling under this damn chair to hide from his drunk father and-

 

“I need your help.”

 

The gravelly voice interrupted Clint’s painful trek down memory lane.

 

He wasn’t entirely grateful for it, however.

 

Looking up, he had to blink what he imagined was crusted blood and sweat out of his eyes to focus on the man sitting against the wall a few feet away from him.

 

The  _ Cardinals _ hat had been abandoned, and instead, the  _ Winter  _ fucking  _ Soldier _ was sitting on Clint’s kitchen floor in jeans, boots, and a white a-tank that had a bit of blood on it. The flannel shirt he had been wearing over the undershirt when he had first come in was nowhere to be seen.

 

But there was a pretty spectacular bruise blooming over the man’s right temple, and his lips looked swollen. So at least Clint had managed to do some kind of damage before getting taken down.

 

“Explain to me how you think I’m supposed to react to you asking for my help after you  _ drugged me _ and  _ tied me to a chair _ in my own home,” Clint bit out.

 

“You tried to shoot me.” He held up Clint’s Beretta as proof.

 

“Yeah, well, I had it on good authority that you're not the hugging type.”

 

The guy’s eyes narrowed, but then he nodded.

 

“Romanoff warned you about me.”

 

Clint snorted.

 

“No, you asshole,  _ you _ warned me about you.”

 

The words seemed to startle the man, but then his lips compressed and he nodded, as if that made sense.

 

Which…

 

“You know who I am,” the man said. It wasn’t really a question, but there was a tone, a slight hint of emotion, that Clint really didn’t want to let get to him.

 

“Yeah. I know who you are,” Clint sneered. Sneering was good for keeping emotions at bay.

 

The man blinked, looking, for just a heartbeat, as lost and needy as the man who had stood naked in front of Clint fifteen years ago and said he wanted Clint.

 

“Who I am?”

 

“Oh, no. Nope. Fuck you. Fuck that. I’m not sitting through a goddamn interrogation.  _ You _ tell me who you are.” The sneering wasn’t working out quite so well for him anymore, but Clint was absolutely not going to let himself fall for the most feared assassin in the world. Again.

 

The man took in a deep breath, let it out in a shuddering sigh that absolutely did not make Clint want to touch him.

 

“James Buchanan Barnes. Born March 10th, 1917 in Lebanon, Indiana. Moved to Brooklyn, New York in 1921. Oldest of four children.”

 

It sounded like he was reciting something.

 

“Mother, Winnifred Barnes, born Winnifred Arendt in Katowice, Poland in 1884. Immigrated to the United States in 1912, surviving the  _ RMS Titanic _ sinking and meeting her future husband, George Barnes, while at Ellis Island. George Barnes, born in Dorset County in 1880. He-”

 

“Stop.  _ Stop _ ,” Clint found himself begging.

 

He knew this. He knew  _ all _ of this.

 

It was the biographical information displayed in the Smithsonian, in the  _ Captain America and His Commandos _ exhibit that, for some inexplicable reason, was in the fucking Air and Space Museum.

 

The man - Barnes - looked at Clint with gray eyes that were anything but empty.

 

They were goddamn full of emotion.

 

Clint wanted to look away. Fuck, he  _ needed _ to look away, but he couldn’t.

 

“I’m not him,” Barnes said, his broken voice barely above a whisper.

 

Clint drew in a deep breath and told himself to fucking  _ think _ .

 

Fifteen years ago, he had had a… wild night with Barnes, and the man had told him to walk away if they ever encountered each other again.

 

One month ago, the Winter Soldier had been unleashed on Washington, DC, and was charged with killing Captain America. According to Natasha, Steve was  _ still _ in the fucking hospital after barely surviving his last encounter with Barnes. 

 

Clint knew who the Winter Soldier was. Even before Natasha had had her fateful run-in with him back in ‘09, Clint had been familiar with stories about the mythical assassin, the sniper who could make impossible shots and left no witnesses behind. He just hadn’t realized that he  _ knew _ the Winter Soldier until Natasha finally returned his fucking phone calls while Clint watched news reports on the devastation in DC from his hotel room in Prague.

 

So…

 

So, the guy sitting in Clint’s kitchen, holding Clint’s gun, the guy who claimed he needed Clint’s help, was either the same guy who had almost killed Steve. Or he was the guy who had kissed Clint like he was trying to memorize him. Or he was someone else entirely. 

 

Clint sighed.

 

“Then who are you?” he asked, maybe playing right into Barnes’s hands. Maybe not.

 

Sure, the guy presumably had  _ decades _ of training on Clint, but Clint had been trained by S.H.I.E.L.D. - HYDRA. Some fucking intelligence organization.

 

Barnes swallowed hard, and thankfully looked away from Clint, tilting his head to the side and closing his goddamn eyes so Clint didn’t have to drown in them any longer.

 

“You called me John Connor.”

 

Clint sighed again. Jesus.

 

“That was- that was a joke. He’s not real. He’s-”

 

“The boy. The one the Terminator is sent to kill. I know. I Googled it.”

 

And that- that was too much.

 

Clint snorted a laugh, and then he coughed, and then he couldn’t  _ stop _ laughing because  _ what. the. fuck _ ? How in the actual fuck was this his life?

 

Sitting in his kitchen, tied up to a damn chair, the goddamn Winter Soldier was sitting across from him confessing to Googling  _ The Terminator _ movies, and… Clint couldn’t handle it.

 

This-  _ this _ is what was going to push him over the edge. Not Loki’s mindfuck. Not questioning the 718 missions he had gone on for S.H.I.E.L.D./HYDRA for the last thirteen years. Not wondering if his best friend was buried in the wreckage of the Triskelion. Not fighting goddamn aliens invading New York City. 

 

This.

 

This was it.

 

This was too fucking much for him to handle.

 

“I didn’t actually call you John Connor,” Clint finally gasped. He could feel tears running down his face. And fine. That was fine. Fuck it. Everything was fine.

 

“No, you asked me if I was looking for him,” Barnes said.

 

“You-” Clint started, but Barnes cut him off.

 

“The arm. I know. You were trying to be clever.”

 

“ _ Trying _ to be?” Clint spluttered.

 

Barnes’s eyes found his again, and there was just… a  _ hint _ of something there. 

 

“I’m sure you did your best,” Barnes muttered.

 

“Oh, fuck  _ you _ ,” Clint said, shocked into a grin.

 

Barnes’s eyes flickered over Clint, and he felt his grin die.

 

“We did that. Something like that. Or was that a dream?”

 

Oh, Jesus  _ fuck _ . 

 

Clint was not equipped in any possible way to deal with this.

 

He cleared his throat, stalling for time, but Barnes just sat there looking at him. As if he had all the goddamn time in the world.

 

“Yeah,” Clint eventually said. “Yeah. We did.”

 

“London. You were shot. You made me fix your shower.”

 

“Look, pal, I didn’t  _ make _ you do anything. You  _ offered _ to kill people for me, and I asked if you knew anything about plumbing-”

 

“You don’t still use that safehouse.”

 

Clint blinked, a little derailed.

 

“Uh, no. I sold it, six years ago.”

 

Barnes nodded and looked away again, down at his lap this time, at the gun in his hands. One corner of his mouth tugged upwards.

 

“I kept going back there.”

 

“What?”

 

“I kept- I kept going back there. Instead of reporting back for debriefings, I would go to London and I would go there, to your safehouse. I’d sit across the street and… I think I was waiting for you? I don’t know. I didn’t remember you. Sometimes, I did. Sometimes…” Barnes trailed off, rubbed one hand over his mouth and then shook his head. 

 

Clint really,  _ really _ didn’t know how to process that.

 

Because-

 

Shit. Fucking shitting  _ shit _ .

 

But it did beg the question.

 

“How the fuck did you find me?”

 

This farm, his family farm, wasn’t listed in his name or under any of his aliases. The deed still had the name of Clint’s mother, Alice Merton, on it. Which had taken a lot of illegal fuckery to make happen, but Clint had pretty much thought it was worth it, for a lot of reasons. Until he found himself held captive in his own house, anyway.

 

“You weren’t in London.”

 

Clint wasn’t even going to contemplate how the fuck Barnes had made it across the Atlantic and back in the last month - definitely not by plane. He also, absolutely, was  _ not _ going to feel regret for not keeping the safehouse. Wasn’t going to wonder what would have happened if, just once, over the last fifteen years, his and Barnes’s paths had crossed again.

 

_ I kept going back there _ .

 

That was going to keep Clint up at night. For probably forever.

 

“I looked through HYDRA’s files on you. The encrypted ones Romanoff released. I found your… mentor? Trick Shot.”

 

That made Clint’s mouth go dry.

 

“How, uh, how’s he doing these days?” He forced himself to sound casual. Forced himself not to think about getting shot by the man who he had trusted, had loved, had worshipped. Forced himself not to think about how cold he had been when Trick Shot and Barney had left him, alone, in the dark, to bleed out and die.

 

“Not as well as he was doing before I found him,” Barnes shrugged, voice detached and eyes empty. “But his hands will heal. Mostly.”

 

“Mostly.”

 

Clint really didn’t know how to feel about that. About any of it.

 

So he packed it up in a mental box labeled ‘ _ don’t ever think about this shit again’ _ and shoved it to the back of his mind.

 

“He told me you were from Waverly. It didn’t take long to track you down after that.”

 

“Uh huh. Right. That’s… good to know. Great.”

 

On one hand,  _ fuck _ . On the other, Clint really hadn’t been looking forward to spending the rest of his life as a fucking  _ farmer _ .

 

And then, on the third hand he didn’t actually have, he had no fucking clue how  _ his _ run-in with Barnes was going to turn out. 

 

Clint sighed.

 

“You said you needed my help.”

 

“You said I was a murderous HYDRA flunkie and you weren’t going to give me shit,” Barnes reminded him.

 

Clint rolled one shoulder in a shrug.

 

“Yeah, well. Guess I am too, huh?”

 

Barnes stared at him, long and hard, and Clint was fairly certain Barnes didn’t find whatever it was he was looking for in Clint’s return glare.

 

“You don’t trust me.”

 

“I don’t trust  _ myself _ , pal. Don’t take it so personally.”

 

Barnes stood up, the movement unexpectedly swift, and Clint couldn’t help but tense in anticipation.

 

Of course Barnes noticed it, his gray eyes narrowing, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he put the Beretta on the kitchen counter behind him, and he reached into the front right pocket of his jeans and pulled out a slip of paper.

 

“How’s your Russian?” Barnes asked him.

 

“Better than my Danish.”

 

Barnes nodded and rubbed his fingers over the paper.

 

“There are… ways to control me. Words my handlers use. The initiation sequence, and…” Barnes’s throat worked, and his jaw muscles bunched. “The first three words will stop me. Say them, and I…” Barnes trailed off again. Clint wasn’t sure what exactly the other man was feeling, but whatever it was, was strong and fucking  _ awful _ . 

 

Barnes drew in a shaky breath and clearly made an effort to force his emotions aside.

 

“The second phrase will wake me back up.”

 

“Wait, the first three words make you go to sleep? Like… you just fall asleep when your handlers say them?”

 

Funny. Clint had handlers. Had  _ had _ handlers. Somehow, the context of  _ his _ handlers and Barnes’s seemed infinitely different.

 

“No.” Barnes made a vague, irritated gesture with his hands. “I just stop. I stop, and I wait for instruction. The second phrase lets me… think again.”

 

Oh. Great.

 

That was so much fucking worse than Clint had thought.

 

“Uh…” 

 

Clint wasn’t sure what any of this had to do with anything, really.

 

Barnes crossed the room until he was standing in front of Clint.

 

Slowly, as if worried he was going to spook Clint - and, really, no need to worry, Clint was already plenty fucking spooked - Barnes dropped down into a crouch.

 

He put the slip of paper in Clint’s lap.

 

Oh.

 

Oh,  _ fuck _ .

 

Clint blinked at the words on the paper. At the precise handwriting that was so dark he wouldn’t be surprised if the paper was dented.

 

Three words were at the top of the paper.

 

Веди́ себя́ хорошо́ .

 

_ Behave yourself _ .

 

It was the kind of thing you said to a kid. The kind of thing Clint had heard parents shout when their children were misbehaving in parks and- 

 

At the bottom of the paper were two more words.

 

Хорошо́ спал.

 

_ Have you slept well? _

 

Clint was pretty sure he was going to vomit.

 

He looked from the paper to Barnes.

 

“You don’t trust me,” Barnes repeated. “Say those things and you… control me.”

 

Oh, fuck  _ this _ .

 

“I’m not doing that. I’m not saying that shit.” 

 

Maybe it was childish, but Clint shifted his legs apart, had to jiggle his thighs a bit, but the paper fell off them and to the floor.

 

Barnes arched an eyebrow at him.

 

Clint arched an eyebrow back.

 

Barnes sighed.

 

“What are you going to do when I untie you?” Barnes asked.

 

And wasn’t that the million dollar question?

 

Assuming, of course, that Barnes  _ let _ him go.

 

Clint licked his lips.

 

“What do you  _ want _ me to do when you untie me?”

 

Barnes rolled his eyes. And sure, it wasn’t the smoothest attempt to get information, but it was something.

 

“There’s a book, with the control phrases. And there are… my handlers. They are out there. I need to find them.”

 

“And what?” Clint had to ask, because, well… Did Barnes want to find them to go  _ back _ to them? Or did he want to find them and murder the shit out of them? Because Clint could get behind one of those plans, but not the other.

 

“I can’t let them control me any longer. I can’t-” Barnes swallowed hard. “I need you to help me find them. Or I need you to kill me.”

 

Clint stared.

 

And then stared some more.

 

“What the  _ fuck _ ?”

 

Barnes looked back at him, eyes so damn blank it was like staring… at a corpse.

 

“Say the words. Make me stop. I won’t fight back. Put a bullet in my brain. Burn my body. Don’t let them take me again.”

 

Okay.

 

Clint really hadn’t needed even  _ more _ nightmare fodder. But, well. Here they were.

 

“I’m not going to kill you. And I’m not going to say the fucking words. Any of those fucking words.”

 

Barnes continued to stare at him.

 

Clint sighed.

 

“I’ll help you find them. I won’t let them take you again.”

 

“You’ll kill me before you let them take me.”

 

“I’ll kill  _ them _ before I let them take you,” Clint corrected.

 

Barnes’s eyes narrowed.

 

“That’s my final offer. So either you untie me, or I break this chair that’s been in my family for  _ generations _ and use one of the chair legs to beat some sense into you.”

 

Barnes looked torn between amusement and disappointment.

 

But then he leaned in close, so close that Clint felt the puff of his breath against his cheek as Barnes’s arms slid around him and worked Clint’s hands free.

 

Barnes immediately leaned back, and Clint wasn’t even a little sad about that distance between them.

 

“If you try to inject me with something again, I will shoot you,” Clint had to add.

 

Barnes actually smirked.

 

“You can try.”

 

-o-

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to my beta reader, Ro, who supports me in all of my crazy endeavors and works so hard to make my stories better.
> 
> A few timeline deviations: 
> 
> Clint is born in 1976 instead of the MCU canon of 1971  
> Clint doesn't join S.H.I.E.L.D. until 2003, instead of the MCU canon of... sometime around 1998 or just before.


End file.
